Miss Leslie's Secret

by Jennifer Moore

  “Thank ye for the concern, but I’m quite well.”

  He made a sound in the back of his throat. “In that case, is somethin’ else the matter? Ye seem . . . troubled. I hope I’m not the cause of yer distress.”

  She thought for a moment but had a difficult time coming up with a reply. The thoughts in her head seemed not to want to form into words. And she was so cold.

  “I should have asked yer permission before sending Jamie with Nellie,” he said after a moment. “I apologize for the presumption.”

  “He doesn’t allow me to kiss his cheek or smooth his hair.” She felt a tear on her cheek and wiped it away with a gloved finger, wondering where the words had come from. What happened to her resolve to stay away from personal topics?

  “I’m not sure—are ye speakin’ o’ Jamie?”

  Aileen closed her eyes and forced her mind to focus. “What I mean is ’tis difficult to see the lad growin’ so fast. In no time at all, he’ll be a man, and . . .” She wiped another tear, humiliated at the outburst of emotion. “I ken I’m pamperin’ him, treatin’ him like a wee bairn, and then ye arrived in the village—a soldier, handsome, strong, and he without a da. Ye’ve made him feel sure o’ himself, and—” She closed her mouth, realizing she was prattlin’ on without any thought as to what she was saying.

  Conall stopped, turning toward her. “Mrs. Leslie. I never meant to offend ye or come between ye and yer son.”

  For some reason, his words made her tears come faster. She drew in a breath that turned into a sob and felt mortified. What was she doing? She didn’t feel this upset.

  He pressed a handkerchief into her hand, and she was too humiliated to even raise her gaze to his. “I’m so sorry, sir. I’m being silly. I must be tired from the festivities. Please don’t pay me any mind.” She dabbed her cheeks and gave a smile, trying to appear as if her mind were clear and her body didn’t ache. She tugged on the cart, and with an uncertain look, Conall clasped the handle as well, pulling beside her.

  They arrived at the byre and found Jamie hauling a bucket of water, which he dumped into the horse’s barrel. “I took off the saddle and rubbed her down just like ye showed me,” the boy said.

  “And fed and watered all the animals, I see.” Conall nodded toward the fresh straw in the troughs. “Fine job, lad.”

  Jamie grinned and puffed out his chest as he had when Aileen complimented his work at the apiary. “What tasks do ye have today, Sergeant?”

  Conall glanced at Aileen. “I think the first task is to get yer ma home.”

  Jamie’s eyes widened as he looked at her, and she saw a flicker of panic. “Are ye ill, Mam?”

  The fever last year had frightened the boy. Aileen gave a reassuring smile. “No, mo croí. Just a bit tired. I’ll feel better after a rest.”

  “We’ll not be deliverin’ any more hives today?” Jamie asked.

  Aileen shook her head then immediately regretted it as pain erupted behind her eyes.

  “Then might I stay and help Sergeant Stewart?”

  “I’ve plantin’ to do, if ye can spare Jamie,” Conall said. “Since ye’ll be restin’.”

  His voice sounded tentative, as if he were nervous to ask. Aileen felt like a silly fool. Of course he was nervous, worried that anything he said would cause her to break into tears and indiscriminate blatherin’.

  “O’ course he can,” she said.

  “Jamie, take the handcart home, and I’ll bring yer ma in the wagon.” Conall helped her climb up onto the wagon bench, and then he set to harnessing the horse.

  The journey home was hazy. Aileen remembered feeling chilled, giving in to a fit of coughing, then riding with her head in her hands. Conall held her arm to keep her steady, and sometime later, she was being helped out of the wagon and into her cottage. But surely she must have been drifting in and out of dream because as she lay down on her pallet, she thought she felt a blanket pulled up over her shoulders. A finger brushed her cheek, and she heard a familiar deep voice: “If ye’re ever needin’ a cheek to kiss or hair to smooth, Mrs. Leslie, I’ll gladly oblige ye.”

  Chapter 10

  Conall ran his fingers through his wet hair, watching the storm through the dining room window. He was glad he’d sent Jamie home before the torrent began. The rain had fallen on and off throughout the afternoon, hardly uncommon for the eastern Highlands, but within the last half hour, a full raging thunderstorm had developed. Before Mrs. Ross had left for the evening to practice with the kirk choir, she’d prepared a warm meal, set a fire (bless the woman), and put together a basket with venison stew and warm bread for Jamie to take home for himself and his ailing ma.

  Conall couldn’t believe Mrs. Leslie had been working in her condition. Her usually bright eyes had appeared unfocused and tired, her cough was rough and jarring, and she’d fallen asleep on the short ride home. She needed to be abed, not haulin’ hives around the countryside. Especially in such weather.

  Once he and Jamie had returned her home and put away the bee cart, Conall sent Jamie inside to check on his ma while he himself crossed the road to speak to Mrs. Campbell. The older woman had promised to keep a watchful eye on her neighbor. She was a peculiar auld bat, Mrs. Campbell, but he knew Aileen would be safe under her care. And luckily, Jamie had repaired the cottage’s leaking roof.

  Conall couldn’t help a smile as he thought of the lad and his cleverness when it came to fixing things. He seemed to have a genuine knack for it. And seein’ Jamie master a new skill and the child’s resulting pride was more satisfying than anything Conall had done in years.

  He considered what it was about Jamie Leslie that made Conall look forward to the lad’s company. Not since he was a child himself had he truly spent time with a young person, and it surprised him how much he enjoyed it.

  But as he’d come to care for the lad, something else had happened, another thing Conall had not expected. He’d grown fond of Mrs. Leslie as well. In the beginning, the reasons for that were rather obvious, he thought. She was a beautiful woman, full of spirit, and not one to mince words nor hold back when she felt wronged. She was brave—one would have to be when driven from her home and forced to raise a child alone. All of that and seeing her affection for her son made Conall’s attraction natural, but ’twas the understanding she’d shown at the bonfire that had sparked a deeper regard. She’d not given pity nor downplayed his reaction, but she’d asked about his experiences, listened, and told of her own in return.

  And seeing her today. She’d been so competent with the hives, and though he didn’t particularly care for the topic, he liked hearing her speak about something she was obviously passionate about. If only ’tweren’t bees. He winced, remembering the pain of all those stings and the fright of being chased by thousands of angry insects.

  Perhaps when she felt better, he’d ask if she’d like to attend the choir practice with him. The Dunaid congregation was filled with fine voices, and she may enjoy—

  A banging on the door pulled him from his thoughts. Who was calling on such a night? The banging continued, and he heard a child’s voice accompanying it—Jamie’s voice. Conall felt a burst of worry as he hurried to the front hall. He pulled open the door to reveal the boy, soaked through and shivering.

  As soon as Jamie saw Conall, he ran forward, grabbing his arm. “Sergeant, ’tis Mam. She’s gone.” His eyes were wide and his face pale.

  Conall glanced out into the dark. “Perhaps she’s only at Mrs. Campbell’s.”

  Jamie shook his head, spraying drops from his curls. “I ran to Mrs. Campbell’s straightaway, but ’twas nobody at home. She singin’ at the kirk. Mam’s nowhere. Not in her bed, not in the bee shed or the midden, not at Mrs. Campbell’s . . .” His hand clamped tighter. “Has a faerie taken her?”

  Conall shook his head, a tendril of worry working its way inside his thoughts as he remembered Mrs. Leslie’s condition earlier that day. He pulled loose from Jamie’s grip, closed the door, then found his coat, insisting the bo
y put it on. Though ’twas much too large and still damp, it was better than only the soaked linen shirt the boy wore. “Come, lad. We’ll take Nellie.”

  As they rode over the muddy road, Jamie’s arms tight around his waist, Conall tried to think of what could possibly have happened to Mrs. Leslie. There was a chance the lad was mistaken. Maybe the cottage was dark and he simply hadn’t seen her when he’d gone inside. Based on how much time had passed since Jamie left the manor, he couldn’t have been home for more than a few minutes before running back to Conall’s house. Perhaps he’d simply not looked thoroughly. Or his ma could be at Mrs. Campbell’s drinking tea in front of the old woman’s fire or even at the kirk listening to the choir. But Conall was forced to admit that each of the scenarios seemed unlikely. The idea that Mrs. Leslie would have gone out in the heavy rain while in such poor health worried him. What could have drawn her from home?

  When they reached the cottage, a quick glance was all it took to verify ’twas deserted just as the boy’d claimed. The blankets were pulled back, and the pallet was empty. Conall lit a lantern and followed Jamie into the bee shed, but there was no sign of her there either. He was glad to see the handcart in place. At least she’d not attempted to deliver more hives.

  In the pouring rain, they searched the small yard but quickly realized she wasn’t there. The lad stood beside him, shaking in the oversized coat and looking up at Conall with rain dripping on his frightened face.

  They crossed the road, splashing through muddy rivulets, to Mrs. Campbell’s cottage, but the windows were dark, and banging on the door brought no answer.

  Jamie sniffed and wiped a sleeve across his eyes.

  Conall place a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Let’s look at the kirk then, lad. She could have jes’ gone to hear the choir, and ye fretted for nothin’.”

  They hurried back to Nellie, climbed into the wet saddle, and rode through the village. Conall dismounted and helped Jamie down, and the two hurried through the kirkyard and inside the heavy wooden door. They must have been a sight, dripping water as they moved into the dim candlelight because Mr. Graham hurried over to them directly.

  “We’re lookin’ for Mrs. Leslie.” Conall kept his voice low so as to not disturb the practice. “Have ye seen her?”

  Mr. Graham shook his head. “Nay, not since the bonfire. She’s gone missin’?”

  “Surely a misunderstanding.” Conall laid a hand on Jamie’s shoulder, shaking his head slightly. The last thing he wanted was for the lad to become more panicked. “We thought she might ha’ come to hear the singin’.”

  “What’s this then?” a woman’s voice said.

  Conall turned to find Mrs. Campbell had joined them.

  “Wha’ are ye doin’, Jamie? Bargin’ in and disruptin’ the singin’? I’ve half a mind to tell yer ma. And Sergeant. Yer a man grown. Ye should know better, and that’s the truth.”

  “Mrs. Campbell,” Conall said, his voice sounding sharper than he’d intended, “the lad and I are lookin’ for Mrs. Leslie.”

  “Well, she’s at home where I left her.” A look at Jamie’s tears and Conall’s serious expression made her eyes wide. “What do ye mean? She’s gone off? Where?” Her brows pulled together.

  “Tha’s what we’d like to know. Weren’t ye watchin’ over her?” Conall asked. “I told ye she’s unwell.”

  “Och, aye. I checked in on her this afternoon, and she was sleepin’. Then, when I left for the kirk, I saw her in the yard talkin’ to Mr. MacKenzie.” Mrs. Campbell jerked a thumb over her shoulder, indicating a man in the choir seats. “She looked well enough then.”

  A few other members of the choir joined them in the aisle.

  “What’s happened to Mrs. Leslie?” Davy walked toward them, his wooden leg clunking on the floorboards.

  “We canna find her anywhere,” Jamie said, sounding helpless and very young.

  “Oh, dear.” Mrs. Graham put fingers over her mouth, looking as if she’d be ill.

  Conall squeezed Jamie’s shoulder. “Stay with Mrs. Campbell, lad. I’ll speak with Mr. MacKenzie. We’ll clear this up quick enough.”

  By this time, the music had stopped and the remainder of the choir was craning their necks to see the source of the commotion. The kirk was an old stone building with high windows, converted from a Catholic house of worship, and instead of a choir loft, the singers sat in a small alcove on the opposite side of the altar from the lectern-pulpit.

  Conall stepped across the room and approached the man Mrs. Campbell had indicated. “Mr. MacKenzie?”

  “Aye.” Mr. MacKenzie was an older man, broad with cropped hair and a ruddy complexion. He surveyed Conall with the gaze of a person who is immediately distrustful of any newcomer.

  “Do ye ken where Mrs. Leslie has gone?”

  “Who are ye?”

  Conall didn’t have time for niceties. He was starting to feel the tingling in his chest that accompanied dread. “Sir, ye were speakin’ with Mrs. Leslie earlier today. What was the nature of the conversation?”

  Mr. MacKenzie’s scowl grew darker, deepening the lines between his bushy brows. “Don’ see as tha’s any o’ yer affair.”

  Conall’s jaw tightened. “Mrs. Leslie is ill, and she hasn’t been seen since she spoke with ye.” He gestured toward the boy with the minister and the rest of the group in the aisle. “Her son is worried aboot her.” Hearing Davy’s uneven steps behind him, Conall glanced back then moved to the side to include him in their conversation.

  Seeing Davy seemed to ease some of the tension in the older man’s face. Mr. MacKenzie sucked at his teeth. “I talked to her aboot a swarm in the hills above my farm. Likes to know aboot these things, does Mrs. Leslie.”

  Conall had difficulty drawing a breath into his tight lungs.

  Davy spoke up. “A swarm? Did she go after it?”

  He gave a slow nod. “I assume so. Looked up at the sky and said she’d fetch it before the rain came.”

  Conall leaned forward. “Can ye tell me exactly where the swarm is?”

  The man described the location, and Davy nodded. “Aye, I ken just where ye mean.” He turned to Conall. “I’ll take ye there.”

  Conall gave a grateful nod. Davy MacKay was one of the few men in Dunaid who owned a horse. Most didn’t have the means and only leased the animals as needed—typically for plowing or during the harvest season.

  They thanked Mr. MacKenzie, who looked worried instead of angry now, and made their way back to Mrs. Campbell and the others.

  “Jamie, yer ma may have gone after a swarm. Davy and I will—”

  Jamie spoke before Conall could finish. “I’ll go with ye.”

  Conall knelt down to the lad’s height. “I’ll ride faster alone, and we’ve no time to waste, ye ken?” A crack of thunder sounded, and Conall’s stomach roiled with anxiety, but he put on a calm face for Jamie.

  “But—”

  Mrs. Campbell put an arm around Jamie, exchanging a worried look with Conall over the boy’s head.

  “Don’ worry yerself, lad. We’ll find her.” He spoke the words, but he had a hard time making them sound convincing. He rose and hurried with Davy out into the night, glancing upward. The rain and darkness would make a search difficult, nearly impossible.

  “’Tis a chance she’s taken shelter somewhere until the rain stops,” Davy said as they rushed down the muddy street to the livery.

  Conall grunted in acknowledgment. ’Twas a possibility, he supposed. Maybe she’d not even made it as far as the farm before finding cover. But he thought of the open heatherlands and craggy hills between her house and the MacKenzie land, and the hope was fragile at best.

  Chapter 11

  Aileen pressed a hand to a wet rock as a fit of coughing came on. She shivered and continued up the craggy hill to the spot where Mr. MacKenzie had described seeing the swarm. ’Twas becoming dark, and based on the sound of distant thunder and the approaching low clouds, soon enough the rains would start in earnest.

/>   She paused, wrapping her coat tighter with one hand and struggling to remember why she was on the mountain. Were she and Jamie to have a picnic? She looked down at the supplies in her arm: her veiled hat and a wicker skep. Oh yes, of course. The swarm.

  The bees must be near, though she couldn’t hear them. They’d not like the rain, she thought, and would find a new hive quick enough, perhaps an old log or a deserted burrow. She needed to find them before they moved on.

  She walked a bit farther and shook her head, wincing at the aching. Where was her da? Was he to meet her? She couldn’t remember. Looking up, she saw a mass of black writhing on a high branch. Da would be here soon enough with a ladder. He’d know just where in the mass to find the queen, and his clever fingers would work gently to gather the wee insects into the skep.

  Another fit of coughing took her, and she bent over. Once the spell had passed, Aileen stood back up, but the motion made her dizzy. She sat, laying her arms on a rock and cradling her head, finding it difficult to get a deep breath. She shivered, but the cool stone felt good against her cheek. Da would come soon enough.

  Jerking upright, she gasped. Her father didn’t know where to find her. He’d gone to fight in France, and she and Dores had taken Jamie as far away from the deserted township as they could. If her da had returned, he’d have found the other tenants of Glencalvie in the eastern costal villages not all the way in Dunaid. A tear slipped down her hot cheek, and she laid her head back down, thinking of her father either dying on the battlefield alone or returning home and finding his family gone. But she couldn’t risk attempting to contact him. Not when Balfour MacTavish might get word of where she had taken his son.

  No, not his son. My son. Jamie is my son.

  She coughed again, the action hurting her chest. More tears. But no, they weren’t tears, rain. The rain poured down, each drop making her skin ache. She lifted her head and saw it was dark. How long had she been here? She should scoot closer beneath the tree, but she felt so tired. And Da would be here soon. If she moved away, he’d not know where to find the swarm.